


Porcelain

by ellaria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, J/B Shuffled Challenge, Post ADWD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellaria/pseuds/ellaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime knew not where his feet led him once he dismounted, he knew not where he was going, but he knew the face that received him when he arrived; it was the ugliest face he had seen in his life, with the most beautiful eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

> My song is **Porcelain, by Moby**. Lyrics at the end, [song here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhZnEagfjTQ). Millions of thanks to YellowDelaney for betaing this in record time and making it nice and pretty for you guys to read!

The nights in the South became chillier the closer they were to the capital, though it was only two nights earlier that Jaime and Brienne had found themselves under their first light snowfall. The pair had recently passed Brindlewood, so if they could keep their current pace, they would arrive at King’s Landing much sooner than Jaime had anticipated.

At Brienne’s request, they had stolen out of their inn near the Kingsroad as soon as Hyle and Podrick fell asleep. Their companions would be left to think their destination was the Vale, while he and Brienne pushed their mounts towards King’s Landing as quickly as they would go. From some of her half-hearted explanations, Jaime knew she assumed the others would abandon the mission once she was gone—Pod and Hunt did not know yet that the path to the high road was blocked by snow.

Jaime had promised her a ship to Gulltown to ease her passage towards the Vale, even though they were aware that the capital was currently in a dire situation. He oft wondered if he would truly let Brienne leave when they reached their destination, if he would be able to live with himself knowing that she would once more set out on a quest for his honor, feeling the pressure of the noose that nearly killed her.

He still wondered why she had chosen to leave them behind, but with her it always boiled down to honor. Or it used to, before she betrayed her word to Lady Stoneheart on his behalf. Jaime thought perhaps Brienne was trying to protect them by keeping them out of harm’s way, still consumed by the guilt of almost seeing them hang beside her.

Whatever the reason, they set out together, days becoming nights and nights becoming days. He would nurse her wounds as best he could, tending to her cheek and removing the splint from her arm once it was stronger. The completed cycle of doing so was not lost on him; she had been the one to take care of him during their time with the Bloody Mummers.

“You must be glad to go back home, to your king,” Brienne told him softly one night, warming herself by the fire from the cold that hardly ever subsided. “To your family,” she corrected.

Jaime nodded, studying her in the light of the flames. “To my son.”

His words did not make her flinch; she had become accustomed to the idea long ago. “Will you really help me?” she inquired, still unsure.

“I will do whatever I can, my lady. At that last inn, I overheard some soldiers saying Aurane Waters fled King’s Landing with all of Cersei’s ships. I don’t know if it is true, but if it is, that complicates things. Fewer captains would risk traveling while the Bastard of Driftmark hangs about with an entire fleet at his disposal.”

Though she said nothing, he could read the disappointment in her eyes. After everything they had been through, she still only thought of her mission to find Sansa Stark. Not once had she considered going home to Tarth, to her father, and now that option had slipped away, with the isle invaded by pirates.

“Brienne, perhaps it would be best to wait this out and see what happens. Both the Tyrell army and Randyll Tarly’s men are on the move, as far as we know.” He sat next to her on a log, stretching his aching legs out in front of him. “I would not want you at sea with such a high risk of attack.”

“I must find her,” she whispered stubbornly. “It is all I have left.”

On occasion he truly wished he understood how she could become so blind once sworn to duty. She never looked to the sides, never thought of alternatives, never faltered. Jaime almost regretted sending her out to locate Sansa, trying to forget the image of her glimmering eyes in the White Tower as he bestowed her with Oathkeeper.

When he spoke, he found it difficult to keep the anger from his voice. “If that is what you believe, I will not stop you. If you mean to fight your way through pirates and armies, through snowstorms and deadly mountains, so be it. Ser Brienne the Marvelous, they will call you. The warrior woman who single-handedly slayed a thousand men to reach the Vale and rescue a lady that she was not sure was even there to begin with.” Jaime began to fling the pieces of wood he had gathered earlier into the fire. “A knight worthy of songs.”

“Do not mock me.” Brienne’s brow furrowed, making her look even more homely, if possible. “I thought you understood.”

“Mock you?” he huffed. “I am trying to knock some sense into your thick skull.”

“You _asked_ me—”

“And you did it. You sought Sansa; you did the best you could. You almost died.” He gritted his teeth. “I mean to keep you alive.”

“Alive and useless,” the wench murmured, looking away. “Useless to everyone who has ever trusted me.”

Jaime reached for her face, forcing her to look at him. “It was not your fault Renly died, you have been bleating your defense against those accusations ever since I met you. It was not your fault Catelyn Stark was killed by the Freys. It was not your fault Sansa was forced to wed Tyrion, or that she fled after Joffrey’s death.” Her face flushed at his words, her eyes watering in spite of herself. “You did the best you could. I would trust no one else to defend me. You promised I would not die back at the Riverlands, and here I sit. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Her lips pursed. She gave no reply.

“I trust you,” Jaime continued, pulling back his hand. “All I ask is that you wait.”

It felt like an eternity had passed before she said something. Jaime took the time to examine her face. In the glow of the fire, she looked so worn out that it was hard to believe she was so young; she had dark rings under her eyes that spoke of her uneasy sleep and the skin around her mouth was taut with worry. In that moment he wished for nothing more than to help her, to give some sort of comfort, but he knew she would reject it.

“I will wait,” she said finally, resigned. “I will stay until it is safer.”

*  *  *

Staring at his twin’s face now that she was shaved bald made Jaime wonder if that was how Cersei felt when she first saw him after his captivity. He had left King’s Landing a golden knight, shining and fierce, strong and confident, only to come back little more than a beggar. When he departed to put an end to the siege in Riverrun, he left behind one of the most beautiful women in the Seven Kingdoms. A woman with long curls and inviting lips that would make any man strive to please her, as he had for so many years.

Now she was almost a stranger, a face in the crowd, as worn and she was bitter.

Cersei hardly looked at him while he stood in the doorway of her undoubtedly overworked bedchamber. _Fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moonboy, for all I know_ . . . She wore a black dress, much simpler than any other he had seen her wear before. _She’s mourning for herself_. Her head was artfully wrapped in a dark red scarf in an attempt to hide what had been lost. The gesture spoke of her shame, a sentiment that contradicted everything his sister had ever been—proud, glimmering, radiant. At that point it was hard for Jaime to tell if it was merely pretense.

“You left me here to die,” she told him, teeth clenched, gazing out the window toward the sea.

“Why would you have wanted me to champion you one-handed?” Jaime asked her, standing still. _I will not come to you this time. I am merely here for my king_.

She crossed her arms over her chest, sighed wistfully. “We are meant to die together, as we came into the world. The trial was folly. They made me walk, Jaime—that walk, in front of the filthy masses. I was humiliated before every wretched peasant in this city. And still they condemned me, all because of Qyburn’s failure, all because of his stupidity. It is no wonder they took his chain.”

“Do you deny that you are guilty of their allegations?” he asked her cynically. “You dug your own grave. I tried to help you and you wouldn’t heed my advice. You sent me away.” Jaime studied the room, trying to push aside all the memories of being in that very bedchamber, spending so many nights with his sister while Robert was out fucking and drinking and hunting. Unbidden, his hand reached for the red silk sheets. They were soft, flowing through his fingers as swiftly as the wind. Cersei turned to look at him, her expression as fiery as it had been during their most lustful encounters. He returned her gaze without hesitation.

“I will not plead,” his twin said firmly. “I still have my pride.”

“You might as well, sweet sister. It’s all you have left.”

“If you did not come here for me, why did you?” Cersei spat.

“I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I was sent to set Riverrun to rights, to extinguish the last of the Young Wolf's influence in the Riverlands. I've done it, all of it, without spilling a single drop of blood. Now I'm back for my king. For my son.”

The woman laughed bitterly. “Your son? He's mine and mine alone. He was never Robert’s, never yours. If anybody found out, they would cast him aside, no matter what the Targaryens did in their time. You will always be no more than a distant uncle. A simple guard. I’m the only parent he ever knew, and he’ll be all alone in the world on the morrow.” Her walls crumbled and the tears began to stream down her face, and she bit into her lip. Still she maintained her distance. It was the last of the woman he once knew and perhaps still loved, underneath all the hatred. “Will you let it happen?”

“What else would you have me do?”

“Help me escape,” she whispered, stepping closer. “You know the passages. You were underneath the Red Keep for days, looking for Tyrion in those tunnels. There are only two guards posted outside my door, I've heard them.”

“And how am I to dispose of the guards?”

Her eyes softened at his words. “The handmaiden—she told me you came with that hulking, ridiculous woman from Tarth. The Evenstar’s daughter. They said she fights like a man, ask her to do it.” Jaime's fist clenched at his sister's contemptuous mention of Brienne, at her tone of superiority. He had heard Cersei speak more pleasantly of the kitchen wenches. The thought slipped his mind as his sister finally gave in, approached him, reached for his good hand. “Tommen needs me.”

_Tommen needs to get away from you_ , he couldn't help but think, remembering how insistent his uncle Kevan had been to send her back to Casterly Rock. _And for good reason_.

Her proximity made it easy to perceive her familiar scent, though the feelings it evoked in him were very different than before. Having her so close made it seem like perhaps she was not such a stranger, perhaps there was still a glint of the woman he had loved. He studied her eyes, mirrors of his own, her nose, her mouth. His fingers reached for her delicate jawline, caressed her cheekbones, his thumb brushed her lip. She surrendered to his touch easily, her eyes gleaming.

Cersei was porcelain. She was delicate, beautiful, her skin luscious and pleasant to the touch. She adorned herself with expensive dresses, looked resplendent with her elaborate hairstyles, her beauty highlighted by her golden jewelry, by her rubies and emeralds. She was bright, expensive, accessible only to the rich and powerful, only to those who could afford it.

Jaime pulled his hand back and unclasped the belts of his golden hand. She stood there, staring at him, uncomprehending of his actions. Once it was off, he tossed it on the bed. He reached for her face with his exposed stump to touch her, to feel what was left of her with what was left of him.

Cersei recoiled with a frown, repulsed by the mere threat of his affection.

_You never wanted me_.

His blood boiled; his senses woke from the slumber she lulled them into. He picked up his discarded appendage and walked out of the room without looking back.

*  *  *

Jaime did not look away when they forced her to kneel, nor did he avert his gaze as Ilyn Payne's new greatsword swung down to take her head. He remained still atop his horse, his face frozen, a knot in his throat, his blood pumping furiously through his veins. Afterwards, he left the peasants to celebrate the gore of the spectacle. To revel in the disgrace of the royalty, of those who were gods in their eyes, those who filled their bellies with Dornish red and roasted boar while they brawled over scraps.

He turned his horse around and rode it all the way back to the Red Keep with his head held high; back to his king, back to his son, one half missing from his soul. The knight's back was straight as a board, his golden hair flowing in the wind of that drifted from the bay, marked with the stench of rotten fish and shit and whores. His golden armor was bright against the midday sun, and though his cloak was the purest white, he had never felt more wretched.

Jaime knew not where his feet led him once he dismounted, he knew not where he was going, but he knew the face that received him when he arrived; it was the ugliest face he had seen in his life, with the most beautiful eyes. A contradiction of a woman, the best and worst, the least attractive and most compassionate, the docile inside the fierce. The warrior whose strength surpassed any man’s, with freckles impossible to count, with teeth prominent like a horse’s, daring enough to bite off Vargo Hoat's ear.

Hands as big as his own met his face; her strong, muscular body tensed as he collapsed into it to hold his weight, to hold his life, so willing to protect him from the darkness. Soft words were whispered to soothe him as they sat down at the foot of her bed, her fingertips gently grasping the nape of his neck as his forehead fell against her shoulder and he wept, and wept, and wept. _Less than a man_ , Jaime would have thought about himself before, a lifetime ago, but Brienne had seen him cry, Brienne had cleaned his vomit, his shit; Brienne had shaved him, dressed him, pulled him out of the water, pulled him into the light when there was naught else. Brienne knew, Brienne saw, and still Brienne loved him through it all.

*  *  *

The hallway he was walking was dark, and his eyes took a long time to adjust. Only a few torches illuminated the way, here and there, and his path was one of solitude. He could hear the water splashing against his boots with every step, the echo bouncing off the stone walls, and he realized he was in a crypt.

The White Bull regarded him with cold eyes, judgmental, without a drop of compassion. Jaime went on, step after step, almost stumbling over Ned Stark’s head as it lay bleeding on the ground, a crow firmly perched atop it. Then it was Vargo Hoat, rotting away, hacked apart piece by piece by The Mountain.

It was not long ago that he was in a similar place, in that blackness. He remembered that his protector was given a flaming sword to light his way. “Brienne,” he called for her, but no response came, and it dawned on him that he was dead, like all the rest.

“They will kill you,” Brienne whispered in his memories. “They will try to.” The Brotherhood, Stoneheart, it was months ago. “I will not allow it.”

And so she had not.

After that combat his heart was still beating strong as ever. The wounds healed and became scars, both his and Brienne’s, so Jaime wondered how it was that he had died. He felt his stomach become a knot, a sensation akin to fear, as if deep down he knew he had left unfinished business behind. _Brienne would not let me die, so how is it that I am here?_

“Come at once, help me, save me,” a voice implored. “I need you now as I have never needed you before . . .”

“No,” Jaime replied firmly. “Put this in the fire.”

He went down the seemingly endless hallway and soon came across a looking glass in the distance. He was not afraid of it—he knew who he was now: a Kingsguard, a commander.

One more step, two. He stood in front of the mirror and opened his eyes, green eyes that stared back at him, eyes he had always known. But his lips were delicate, his features were feminine and soft, his locks of hair were long, down to his waist. When he spoke, it was not with his own voice. “Come at once.”

Then the crypts crumbled, stone by stone they fell apart; the floor collapsed beneath his feet and he was falling, falling into a void. His stomach turned at the sensation, terror seeped into his veins, he tried to struggle, to hold on to something, but he could not move . . .

Jaime jerked awake, instinctively sitting up in bed, still shocked by the sensation.

He had to force himself to remember it wasn’t him who died—it was Cersei. _I never fought for you_ , Jaime would tell her in his mind, _I never died for you_. Then they would have gone together; they would have left the world the same way they came into it, and he would be ashes by now, food for the crows. He would be remembered as the one-handed Kingsguard who sought his death in Gregor Clegane’s stead. A reckless knight who stood no chance against his opponent, but still fought him in the hopes that he would defend his sister’s honor.

But Cersei had no honor, and Jaime was no longer reckless. He now calculated his moves, having learned to play the game he had so hated, out of necessity if nothing else. He was no less proud, but he was sick of dreams, sick of lies, of the intrigues that Cersei started, perpetuated and in the end caught up to her.

“You were guilty,” Jaime whispered, almost expecting an answer from the sheets, an answer that would never come. He had found himself coming to her abandoned bedchamber, never allowing the maids to change the bedding, witnessing her scent disappear with time. _You were guilty and the gods saw fit to take your head, to pay for your crimes. You should have heeded my advice while I was here instead of sending me away, but pride mattered more to you, and now the maggots feast on your skin_.

He thought of Lancel, of Osmund Kettleblack. Remembered how faithful he had thought she was to him, imagining her suffering while he was Robb Stark’s prisoner, only to find out she had been fucking and drinking away her days while he went through all seven hells to get back to her. He had been jealous, seeing his other half pulled away from him; everything that he believed to be his was no more than another deception. But as the blindfold had been stripped from him, so had the anger and the bitterness that accompanied it.

Though now the jealousy was gone, he still could not shake away the guilt that pressed upon him every time he woke, seeking to drive him closer to madness. But he would not allow it, not anymore. Cersei had made a conscious choice to play the game and she had lost, all of her own accord.

_So this is goodbye_.

He grasped the sheets firmly, pulling them off the bed in one swift motion. He gave them to the first handmaiden he found, a mousy brown-haired girl. “Burn these,” he instructed, his tone resolute, before making his way back to the council chamber, where his king—and his duty—would be awaiting him.

*  *  *

The months passed, the days grew colder, the layers of snow outside thickened. On a good day, he and Brienne would be able to spar for an hour, perhaps two at most, but soon the snowfall became too dense, clouding their vision and freezing their bones.

She was a much better partner than Ilyn Payne. Jaime was surprised at how patient she was, how observant of his movements, catching the slightest weakness and correcting him. He soon grew more confident, his defenses improved and he counted fewer deaths every time they practiced.

His companion had been a brand new source of entertainment for the soldiers when they had first arrived. The men were happy to mock her behind her back—never to her face, lest they be knocked into the dust—or to speak ill of her, and surely derided him as well. _A cripple fighting a woman_. That was until he first heard the words ‘Kingslayer’s whore’ whispered behind the stables and broke a groom’s nose with his golden hand.

The training yard was empty that evening when they decided to practice. The snow had lessened and the sky was clear for the first time in days. The retiring cloud cover gave way to a night full of stars and a bright moon that illuminated the yard. Brienne wore a simple tunic and breeches, just like him, but tonight there was something different about her.

When they stopped to take a break, Jaime watched her surreptitiously as she put away her blunted sword and drank a gulp of water from her skin. It was not her face, that was as ugly as usual, though now half her cheek was covered by that infuriating scar. It was the last trace of the Bloody Mummers and their antics; an unkind reminder of the quest he had mindlessly sent her on, never considering the dangers that awaited her in the Riverlands.

Her hair was messy, a few strands sticking to her face in spite of the cold, speaking to the intensity of their sparring. She was flushed from the activity, which made her freckles stand out even more. She was still muscular, still awkward, but somehow as Jaime gazed at her, something changed.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked once she became aware of his scrutiny.

Jaime shrugged. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Brienne explained, closing her skin of water and flinging it down on the ground, wiping her mouth.

“I don’t think it’s so much what I’ve seen, as what I have not.” She was puzzled at that, so he continued, “We haven’t been apart in a long time.”

“There’s nowhere to go, Jaime, the city is besieged.”

“I don’t mean in the city. I mean together, with no company but each other’s.” He dropped his weapon on the ground, walking through the mounds of snow to reach her. The color of her eyes was hardly discernible in the night, and he realized he was almost aching to see their blue. “Since Stoneheart.” She flinched at that. He should not have brought it up, but now that he had, he meant to press on, “Before we parted, your squire told me what happened before you came to find me. That she made you choose—”

Brienne took a step back. “I chose the sword,” she said, looking at the ground. “That is all you need to know.” She picked up her weapon, cleaning off the snow. “Let us continue.”

He reluctantly adopted a fighting stance. They circled, she attacked, he blocked her and thrust back. She evaded the blow easily. “Pod told me how you defended me,” Jaime said in a strained voice, moving forward for a lunge. “How you said I was not the man I used to be.”

Brienne parried and stepped back. “What about it?” she asked, her expression giving nothing away.

“Well, wench,” he replied between clenched teeth. “Faced with a certain death, you stood up for me.” A clang, followed by another, the swords met and separated, again and again. “You spoke well of the Kingslayer.” _Clang_. “The oathbreaker.” She thrust violently and somehow he managed to block it. “They accused you of being a lion, with your life on the line.” Brienne sped up her movements, losing her patience. “Slay the Kingslayer.” _Clang_. “Or be hanged for a betrayer.”

She just stood there, openmouthed, and her brief hesitation cost her dearly. One last swing of his sword and hers slipped from her grasp, hitting the ground with a clatter. Slowly she looked down at the fallen weapon, slouching in defeat.

“You would choose me,” he said.

“I am no lion. I did not choose,” her whisper came, angry and unrestrained.

Jaime approached her like a predator, closing the distance between them so quickly that he barely registered it. “You did choose.” His face neared hers. She bit her lip and made to step back, but his good hand grabbed her by the waist, anchoring her to the spot. “This is what you chose.” The tip of his nose brushed against hers. It was cold, almost freezing. “Was it worth it?” He ran his fingers against her neck, feeling her sweat, his nose invaded by her scent as she barely breathed. “Am I worth it, Brienne?”

Her gaze lowered to meet his eyes and she stood frozen in place like a deer caught in the crossfire, frightened and unmoving. It seemed to him that hours passed before she slowly, grudgingly nodded. It was almost imperceptible but for the fact that her forehead now rested against his. Her pulse quickened beneath his fingertips.

Brienne’s lips were plump and warm. He kissed her gently, the way she ought to be kissed, so she would have enough time to believe it, to allow her fears to slink away. He shifted back so their lips barely brushed, taking in the feel of her. When she leaned in ever so slightly, he knew it was a request, an invitation. Only then did he unleash his truly bold kisses upon her, slipping his tongue inside her mouth, finding her ready to learn how to meet it with hers, to dance with it. They fell into accord with far more ease than he imagined; by then their partnership had turned them into almost a single mind, but still Jaime found a thrill in the discovery of something new, something exciting and unpredictable.

She was tender and timid, her cheeks were flushed and her hands were almost hesitant when they encircled his waist. They broke apart and shared a gaze. He caressed her cheek and pulled her into another kiss; she let him lead and willingly followed.

Much like their duels, it did not take long for Brienne to set a pace of her own. Soon enough she was the one seeking his lips, exploring his mouth, kissing him breathless. He felt himself grow hard in their embrace, a fact that could not have escaped her, but she did not flinch. She was not intimidated by the almost heartbreaking tenderness in some of their kisses, either.

There was a familiarity between them that made all of it feel like second nature. It was as if they had done this before, done it with swords and with gazes, done it with the revelation of their darkest secrets, through words that Jaime had not even shared with his own twin.

She was no Cersei. Cersei was porcelain, but Brienne . . . Brienne was steel, forged through fire, forged through the harshness of their path, through pain and rejection and misery, her heart stronger than her blade, her will unbreakable, her love unfailing. Brienne was his as soon as the noose had tightened around her neck.

*  *  *

Rolly Duckfield, the knight was called.

Brienne had been bolder than Jaime had ever seen her when she pleaded Aegon Targaryen to allow him a trial by combat. She had insisted, time and again, that it should be left to the gods to judge him for his past crimes; crimes from over a decade ago, crimes with a ridiculously honorable cause concealed beneath them. The young new king had hesitated, looked about, consulted with Jon Connington. Jaime could tell by the expression on the knight’s face that his advice was simple—kill him.

But Aegon was intrigued. By what, Jaime could not be sure. Perhaps it was by the towering, hulking woman, or by their unconventional relationship, or by her willingness to champion him with such insistence. Whatever the reason, Rolly Duckfield was chosen to fight Brienne. Jaime could only stand and watch, his life hanging in the balance, all the breaths left to him relying on the tip of Oathkeeper.

A prouder man might have refused, might have been humiliated at the idea of being defended by a woman, but they were far past those follies. All they were by then were unspoken gestures and telling glances; silent communication that screamed of the bond they had come to share. Brienne’s life was bound to his own long before the fight. It might as well be made official.

She wore the bronze armor he had ordered for her before the Dragon King took the city. Jaime had sought to make it as similar as possible to the one in her possession before they became captives of the Brave Companions. Though it was not as impressive, it still suited her well. She wore chainmail underneath, adding even more weight that would restrain the movement of a weaker fighter, but she was more than skilled enough to handle it. She chose not to use a shield, whereas Duckfield was given one with the Targaryen sigil elegantly painted on the front.

Once Aegon announced the start of the combat, they circled each other, studying weaknesses and planning their moves. Rolly approached her first, tentatively throwing a few thrusts in her direction, which she parried with ease. He was burly, so he sacrificed speed to favor strength; Jaime could see it from the strain of Brienne’s parries. She focused on defending for a long time, causing a bout of frustration in the knight and driving him to perform a series of lunges that left him panting. It was then that Brienne dropped her act, making use of her unnatural speed to dodge, dodge and thrust, slashing Duckfield’s forearm as he moved back, though her next blow was deftly blocked by his shield.

The fire that burned inside the throne room flickered and disappeared only to reappear within seconds. The pattern continued, leaving Jaime confused, unable to understand why he could see the combat taking place before him one moment, then darkness the next.

“Jaime,” Cersei called him, with a voice as soft as silk. “Brother.”

Rolly pressed an attack, seemingly bewildered by Brienne’s approach. The force of his blows compelled her to invest more effort than usual in defense, but he had become predictable, and Jaime thought he detected a hint of boredom in Brienne’s eyes.

“I am not whole without you,” his sister whispered.

_She’s bored_. Jaime smirked triumphantly, admiring his champion. She was so good at reading her opponent that soon enough she would overcome him. She became instinct and reaction; she became a true knight.

No light; all darkness. He was lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, the humidity in his bedchamber causing him to sweat. The door opened and she entered in all her naked beauty. _Jaime, you’re my shining knight_. Cersei’s long golden curls were spread about her shoulders, swaying gently as she walked towards him. The moonlight streamed into the room and made her eyes shine brightly, made her lips seem like the very definition of purity.

Brienne’s eyes were focused and calm. She became calculating, analytic, looking for a weak spot in Duckfield’s armor.

His sister climbed on the bed, positioned herself atop him, and the situation became utterly recognizable to him. She was totally exposed, with no secrets to hide, with no lies to taint their love. Her fingertips brushed the side of his face, ran past his temples, all the way down to his collarbone.

Jaime’s champion was graceful, her movements so contradicting of her usually ungainly posture. The way her demeanor transformed in battle never ceased to astound him.

The combatants’ swords clashed again and Brienne groaned loudly from the effort, throwing back the knight. Cersei’s fingers moved up to Jaime’s throat, tightening, pressing, consuming, draining all the air from his lungs, demanding no more and no less than his very existence.

Rolly thrust and parried, thrust again with two more steps; Brienne swung high and at the very last second he dodged, surprising her with a thrust to her side as he located an opening in her armor. Jaime’s cry was choked as his throat constricted, fighting for air, gasping for life. Cersei whispered that he must join her, he must pay—

Brienne’s cry shook him to his core; he felt her pain, saw her fall on her knees. Her blood stained her hands as she grasped her wound, agonizing. The injury was too close to her heart. She gazed at him with her deadened sapphires and fell back against the hard ground. Jaime longed to run to her, but the manacles were restraining him, and he could not move because his lungs ached for a breath of life—Cersei’s face neared his, it was a mirror, naught but a reflection of his own soul. He shut his eyes and when he opened them, it was not Cersei’s face, but his own looking back at him. He was choking _her_ , he was ending her life, he was guilty, it was all his fault.

_I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Jaime dropped to his knees, crawling in desperation to reach Brienne’s body. The need to look into her blue eyes drove him to madness and he took her in his arms, cradled her face—no, that was a lie, what he held in his arms was her empty armor, there was no one inside it.

He looked up to find the duel still going, Brienne battled the other knight as fiercely as ever, having already worn him down. She had managed to land a slash to the side of his face, which was bleeding profusely. Duckfield’s shield was now so dented that he threw it aside, trying to increase his speed, but it was useless. Brienne had tired him with her dance of deceit, with that magnificent cage around her, and she was The Maid and The Warrior and she slashed, slashed again, pushing him to the ground. Duckfield’s blade slid across the floor until it came to a stop at the foot of the Iron Throne.

Aegon’s face was of pure shock whereas Connington was frowning. Brienne stood, stood at the end while everything else stopped; she was the last blooming flower in the field of death.

“Yield!” Duckfield had declared. _Yield_ , came the echo in the near empty throne room, _yield_.

“Jaime,” he heard a voice call.

Brienne had won; Jaime had lived.

Cersei choked him with all her might, and he screamed.

“Jaime,” the voice insisted. “Jaime, wake up.”

His eyes flew open. His brow was awash with sweat, every last strand of his hair was soaked, and his heart was beating so fast that he thought he might retch his supper. Jaime grasped his throat with his good hand, feeling the air flow into his lungs, almost reveling in Cersei’s absence from his bed. _Dead_. Brienne was not. She was neither absent from his bed, nor dead.

Her blue eyes gazed at him in the darkness as she gently wiped the dampness from his forehead with a piece of cloth. Jaime covered her hand with his, taking a deep breath, trying to shake away his nightmare. He leaned forward and kissed her, feeling the dread gradually creep back into the shadows as their lips pressed together. When they broke apart, the girl looked flustered. _Still shy_.

The break of dawn was too close to go back to sleep. They rose, gathered their belongings, prepared for the new day. Jaime would miss the comforts of the inn once they were back on the Kingsroad.

“Leave at once!” Aegon had ordered after the duel, infuriated by its outcome. _He is still a boy_ , Jaime had thought. _A boy who just lost his favorite captive_. “I may have spared your life,” the king spat, “but I will not have the Kingslayer wandering about my city. As of this moment you are cast down from the Kingsguard, stripped of all lands and titles, and it is my command that you both head for the Wall. The Night’s Watch is in dire need of able fighters. Hopefully the Others will take you both.”

Brienne had flinched slightly at the king’s words, and Jaime remembered her vow to kill Stannis should they cross paths again. The possibility had now become a likely future for them; the Baratheon King was settled at Winterfell after defeating Roose Bolton in the field of battle. She would hardly pass up the opportunity to fulfill her promise . . . or would she? Would she choose to abandon Renly’s memory on behalf of the Kingslayer? Would she prefer to fight beside him at the Wall rather than face her inevitable death when Stannis’ guards caught her?

Jaime watched her feed and water the horses in preparation for their journey. Her gaze was focused on the task at hand, unaware of his presence. Brienne’s armor was dented from Duckfield’s blows, her boots worn out, her cloak discolored. Jaime’s eyes went to her scar, the mark that made her into a different person, a knight that replaced the innocent girl he had met at Riverrun. She now knew the same horrors of war as he did, those he remembered every time his stump sought to do a common task instinctively. They had both been disarmed, gnawed to the bone, stripped of their families and their dreams.

And still, somehow, her presence at his side made it seem like a fair trade.

*  *  *

Jaime oft expected to wake from that dream, a dream of life that displaced his nightmares of death, but the end of it never came. The pain of their sparring with swords, the ecstasy of their sparring in bed, her nails digging into his back, the pulse in her neck assaulting his lips and his tongue; it all confirmed it was no dream.

Her skin was softer than he would have thought, smooth where her hands were calloused. It would turn to gooseflesh as soon as he undressed her, sometimes even before that, when he gazed at her with blistering want. Where her breasts where small, her nipples were hard and responsive as soon as his tongue trailed over them. Though her words were scant, her body would scream, sing, tell him everything about her; her moist folds would whisper what she wanted and where, her lips, open to let out her almost wanton sighs, would tell him of her willingness to melt with him. Brienne’s spine would arch at his command, at his thrusts; her lips would seek his own in the reverie of their lovemaking, her softness would dissolve him into a tender ruin, driving his identity from him, transforming him into something new.

“Goldenhand the Just, indeed,” she would whisper into his ear as he caressed her chest, her belly, sliding down, much lower, to find her already wet with desire. Jaime would laugh at having shared the epithet, at her enjoyment of it, the golden hand now forgotten somewhere between the sheets. He would be all stump and clumsy touches with his unpracticed left hand, and she would be all trembling fingers and inexpert kisses.

They would learn together.

And when the time came to fight, they would fight beside each other, Oathkeeper clearing their path, uncertainty always hanging over their heads, as it was wont to do during a war for life.

Jaime could not fight with porcelain. Porcelain was fragile; porcelain would shatter and break, helpless in the face of adversity.

But Brienne . . . Brienne was steel.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Porcelain** , by Moby
> 
> In my dreams I'm dying all the time  
> As I wake its kaleidoscopic mind  
> I never meant to hurt you  
> I never meant to lie  
> So this is goodbye  
> This is goodbye
> 
> Tell the truth you never wanted me  
> Tell me
> 
> In my dreams I'm jealous all the time  
> As I wake I'm going out of my mind  
> Going out of my mind


End file.
